


Confession

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Crowley ends up drunk on Aziraphale's doorstep with an extreme request.





	Confession

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the anon prompt ‘You’re frightening me!’

_Knock-knock-knock_

“A-zira-phale?”

Sitting at his desk, catching up with the newspaper, Aziraphale peers over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Crowley?” he murmurs but he doesn’t get up. No need. If he waits a moment, the locked door will swing open and the demon will let himself inside.

Or it _should_.

It doesn’t, and the knocking continues.

_Knock-knock-knock_

“A-zira-phale?” the voice sings through the bolted wood. “Are you in? Are you there? Can you answer the door, please?”

Aziraphale pulls a face, glaring at the locks, silently scolding them for not turning. _‘Why doesn’t he just open the damned door? It’s not that hard. A snap of the fingers will do it.’_

_Knock-knock-knock_

“A---aziraphale? Please? Open the door?”

Aziraphale pushes back from his desk and starts towards the door. “Crowley? What on Earth is wrong with you?”

‘_But is it really him?’_ a voice inside Aziraphale’s head chimes in. It _sounds_ like him, but _not_ like him, and that makes Aziraphale anxious. He slows his steps but still keeps on despite the warning bells sounding in his brain, summoned by Crowley’s haunting knock and his voice thick with confusion. No, it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like him at all. But it _feels_ like him, which is to say Aziraphale senses an aura on the opposite side of the door that supernatural entities possess. This one feels evil, but in a familiar way, so it should be Crowley. If it _is_ him, why doesn’t he miracle his way in like normal? Aziraphale can’t recall the last time Crowley actually knocked on his locked door. It doesn’t make sense for him to be hanging out on Aziraphale’s doorstep, knocking ominously and begging for Aziraphale to let him in - even if he’s drunk, as Aziraphale suspects.

Unless this is a ruse.

That gives Aziraphale a moment’s pause.

If it is, it would explain so much, like why he hasn’t heard from Crowley all day.

Crowley told Aziraphale that he believed Heaven and Hell would only leave them be for a _bit_, and ever since, Aziraphale has been on edge, waiting for either side to spring a trap. This could definitely be one – Gabriel or Beelzebub ready to whisk him away and force him to face judgment _again_.

They could be planning to use him as bait to get to Crowley. Or maybe the reverse is true. Maybe they already have Crowley and this is them using him as their puppet to lure Aziraphale out.

The thought hurries Aziraphale’s steps.

_Knock-knock-knock_

_“_Aziraphale.”

_Knock-knock-knock_

_“_Aziraphale.”

_Knock-knock-knock_

“Azira---?“

In a knee-jerk decision, Aziraphale opts to miracle the door open before he gets there in case it isn’t Crowley. If it’s not Crowley, he can miracle the offender away without risk of capture.

But no.

After five straight minutes of mounting terror, the doors swing open and there’s Crowley, ten thousand sheets to the wind. Leaning his full weight against the door, he falls forward onto his hands and knees at the angel’s feet, glasses flying off his nose, thoroughly confused when he comes face to face with Aziraphale’s shoes.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale snaps, crouching down to help him up. “What are you _doing_!?”

“Oh, there you are!” Crowley smiles, loopy and bright, but his wet cheeks and red-rimmed eyes hint that he’s been crying. “Hello, Aziraphale!”

“Did you _drive_ here like this!?”

“Nah. I walked.”

Aziraphale helps Crowley find his feet, but he immediately topples over again, knocking into a counter and sliding a stack of vintage hardcovers to the floor.

“I find that difficult to believe,” Aziraphale mutters, locking up again with a wave of his hand. “But why walk here? _Drunk_, of all things!?”

“I needed the fresh air.”

Aziraphale slips underneath Crowley’s arm to shoulder his weight and helps him limp to the back room. “But _why_?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“There’s something I need.” He nods at Aziraphale in thanks when the angel sets him down on the couch. “Something I’m hoping you can help me with.”

“And what’s that, my dear?”

Crowley slumps forward, hands folded between his knees, looking up at Aziraphale with pleading, yellow eyes.

“I want you to take a confession from me.”

It would be a gross understatement to say that Aziraphale is startled by those words. Out of Crowley’s mouth, they shake him to his core. “I … I don’t think I should.”

“Why?” Crowley sneers. “Because I’m a _demon_?”

“No, because _I’m _not a _priest_!”

“You’re an _angel_!”

“True, but I’m not sure that makes me qualified!” It’s a bizarre explanation, but it’s honest. Aziraphale _doesn’t_ know how that works. Technically, he should be able to do it. He’s a representative of the Almighty. But the rules about things like confession and Eucharist and ceremonial rites don’t belong to angels. They belong to mortals. “Besides, what have you done that you feel the need to atone for?”

“I … I’ve been keeping secrets from you. _Big_ secrets.”

“That’s not a sin.”

“But it feels like it. It really, really does.”

“Well, what kind of secrets are they? Have you killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Maimed?”

“No.”

“Have you stolen something?”

“No.”

“Kidnapped anymore children?”

“No.”

“Coveted something?”

“Nngh … ye---I …” Crowley closes his mouth and swallows. “You know what? I might be a little too drunk for this. Maybe I should sober up first.”

“Always a good idea.” Aziraphale puts out an empty wine bottle for Crowley to use lest he get alcohol all over the floor. “How much did you drink anyway?”

“A bottle of wine … or four,” Crowley admits.

“A-ha …” Aziraphale casually fetches another empty wine bottle and puts it beside the first, just in case.

Crowley focuses on the tall, green bottle – focuses on filling it – when something Aziraphale does captures his attention. He watches the angel take a matchbook out of his pocket. He opens it, plucks out a single match, and strikes it, preparing to light the candles standing in antique brass holders on the table, precariously positioned alongside stacks of more books, random papers, old clippings and the like. Flashes of fire fill Crowley’s memory – heat so vivid it sears his lungs, black smoke clogging his sinuses. He remembers it like it was yesterday - the walls of Aziraphale’s shop buckling from the heat, the ceiling crumbling over his head, the gramophone grinding out its last, playing a warped, morbid requiem to, of everything, his and Aziraphale’s friendship.

And the paper, like hundreds of tiny insects curling into ash and fluttering around him, setting everything they touched ablaze. That’s how the fire spread – all the damned paper in this place fueling the flames.

And Aziraphale is about to do it all again.

“No. Don’t do that,” Crowley mumbles, getting unsteadily up off the couch. When Aziraphale doesn’t seem to hear, he grabs the match in his bare hand, crushing the flame in his palm. “Don’t do that!”

Aziraphale stares at Crowley’s hand clutching the smoking remains of the match. “What’s wrong with you, Crowley!? What’s going on!? Talk to me! You’re not making sense!”

“_I’m_ not making sense!? _You’re_ the one wat keeps eight dozen candles in a rundown old store filled with _books_!”

“What are you going on about!? I don’t understand!” Aziraphale takes a step back. His momentum pulls Crowley forward and the demon loses his footing, tripping and falling to the floor. Reaching out for something to support himself, he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and hugs him tight. But even though he _feels_ Aziraphale, he doesn’t _see_ Aziraphale.

He sees _fire_.

“Where are you?” Crowley’s eyes look everywhere – left, right, straight at Aziraphale – but he can’t see him. “Are you ‘ere?”

“What do you mean _am I here_!? You’ve got your arms wrapped around me, you idiot!”

“No. No, I’ve done this before, and I’ve woken up hugging my pillow, and you’d gone. You’d gone, and … when you leave, there’s nothing to hold on to. No you. I need to know …” He starts fumbling with Aziraphale’s clothes, tugging at the buttons to his waistcoat and pulling up his shirt.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasps, but he doesn’t fight him off. “What are you doing?”

“I need to find you!”

“I’m right here, dear boy. Please, stop! I don’t … I don’t know what you’re doing … what you’re searching for! Crowley, you’re … you’re frightening me!”

Like a slap to the face, that makes Crowley stop, makes him roll back on his heels and rise to his feet.

“I’m … I’m sorry. I …” Crowley shakes his head, concentrates harder on sobering up, pushing the alcohol out of his system. His vision starts to clear. Through the smoke and the flames in his memory he can make out glimpses of Aziraphale’s face, but he’s not the calm, ethereal specter from the pub. He’s breathing hard, wide-eyed with concern, and possibly fear, staring at Crowley as if he’s gone mad.

And he’s probably correct.

“I didn’t mean to … I … I’ll go …”

“No!” Aziraphale says. “No, wait! Don’t leave!”

“You said I … I _frightened_ you.”

“I may have misspoke. You caught me off guard. I’m trying my best to understand what’s going on. I didn’t think you were going to hurt me. That’s not what I meant. I’m scared for you, Crowley.”

“I’ll … I’ll be all right. I just have to …” He puts a hand to his pounding temple, pinches his eyes shut, sobers up a sliver more. “I should go.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Aziraphale grabs him by the shoulder, gently but firmly. “Not at this hour, not in this state.”

“I’ll sober up. I won’t hurt anyone.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Aziraphale sighs. After 6000 years, how come it’s still so difficult to talk to one another? “Come … come here, Crowley. Settle down a moment. We’ll sort things out. I just need a minute to think.”

Crowley acquiesces but he doesn’t sit on the sofa. He sinks back to the floor on his knees, as if sitting might require too much effort. Aziraphale’s sympathetic blue eyes examine every line on his exhausted face. This happens on and off lately, Crowley suffering from nightmares that bring him, in various degrees of drunkenness, to Aziraphale’s door. Nothing to this extent has happened before, but Aziraphale figured it was a matter of time.

Crowley needs help. What’s going on inside his head, he doesn’t open up about, and he’s not handling it well. Aziraphale knows it has something to do with the fire in his bookshop, but that’s as far as he’s gotten Crowley to divulge. Aziraphale also knows that Crowley’s demonic power is linked quite closely to his imagination, ergo he must fear that if he talks about it – talks about the fear he felt, the overwhelming loss, the pain it left in him - he’ll speak it into existence. The fire will have been real, Aziraphale will be gone, and there won’t be any way of getting him back.

Crowley is stuck, and Aziraphale needs to come up with a way to lead him out of the dark.

Aziraphale starts straightening his wrinkled waistcoat, but a moment later, he unbuttons it. He removes his bowtie and slips it safely into his pocket. Then he opens his shirt one button past half way, all under the watchful and curious eyes of his demon. Aziraphale slides off the sofa onto his knees. He puts a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and pulls, brings the demon’s head to his chest, positioning his ear over his heart, the echo of what shouldn’t be there beating steady and strong against his ear.

But Crowley hears it because both angel and demon imagine it to be so.

“Here I am,” Aziraphale whispers, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “I’m right here. I haven’t gone. And I haven’t left you.”

The warmth of his skin, a beating heart, the rhythmic ebb and flow of his breathing – they’re real as long as Crowley has faith.

Faith in Aziraphale.

And Crowley falls apart.

“I … I th-thought you’d gone!” he stutters, winding his arms around Aziraphale’s torso and hugging him hard. “I th-thought you’d gone for good! You left me here alone! And I … I didn’t know how to bring you back! I didn’t know what to do without you!”

“There, there, dearest.” Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and rocks him. “It’s all right. I’m here. I promise. I don’t plan on going anywhere.”


End file.
